Death Coil: chapter 1
by Nykolo
Summary: A blood elf death knight of the Ebon Blade, turned mercenary after the fall of the Lich King, is called in to travel to a new continent that has recently been discovered in the south. Garrosh Hellscream has assigned him to the front lines, despite his hatred for the elf. What he finds is nothing he had ever seen before. Nykolo may have his hands full in this new world.


In the capital city of the Horde, Orgrimmar, a disgruntled Nykolo, walks into Grommash Hold, where the warchief of the Horde sits comfortably. No doubt the foolish warchief would desire taunting the mercenary for what he is; a blood elf death knight. It was not until he heard an enraged Hellscream yelling that Nykolo's lips curled into an amused smirk.

"And you let the Alliance get there first!?" The warchief roared. The brown draenic orc stared into his green, azeronian general's eyes with fire. General Nazgrim couldn't help but step back from Garrosh's wrath. "Redirect the invasion fleet," the warchief ordered. "General, you and your best veterans will pave our way." He walked to a miniaturized Alliance ship. "Storm the shore, and paint this new continent red." His steel boot dropped hard on the small ship.

Nykolo's smirk widened as he made his way towards the general. "I see the warchief is as grumpy as always," his voice echoing.

"Nykolo, a great pleasure to meet you!" Nazgrim let out a hand, and the death knight casually shook it. The curious orc looked to his hand. The elf's hand was as cold as ice. "I have heard rumors about how cold you were personally, I have forgotten the rumor of you being cold physically."

"And you understand why I am so cold, do you General?" His glowing blue eyes staring into the orcs very soul. Nazgrim was shaken by the unblinking stare, but his orc discipline soon took effect and he shook his head. "Your soul is linked unnaturally, which is also why your voice is so...haunting."

Nykolo grinned and chuckled softly, showing his surprisingly healthy teeth.

Garrosh soon turned to see Nykolo conversing with the general. "Death Knight, are you done with your useless talk?"

Nykolo's face elongated with annoyance. "Yes," he said gruntingly. "Oh, great small-headed one."

Garrosh growled loudly at the teasing elf, and noisily slumped in his throne. Nykolo

stood lazily in the middle of the room, his arms crossed over his plated chest. "Why are you here, Cold-Blood?" he asked, using the word used for Nykolo and his undead brothers.

"I thought to pay you a visit," Nykolo said, as lazily as he was standing. "You challenged me to a duel once, when I was not present."

"That will have to wait," Garrosh said as he sat back against the chair, his shoulders tilted and his hands hanging over his legs. "For now I have a mission for you."

Nykolo stared at the warchief without blinking, or twitching. "Go on..."

"Our navy has come across an uncharted land to the south," Garrosh stared at Nykolo with equal ferocity. "And I need you to go with General Nazgrim to invade this continent and slaughter any Alliance bastard." He leaned forward to make his point clear to everyone in the Hold. "And if any of the locals interfere..."

Nykolo continued to stare.

"Kill them!"

With not even a second thought. "Aye, your royal boar-headedness," Nykolo's smirk grew even wider.

Garrosh growled.

"However," Nykolo added. "I will not be doing this in your favor." He started to turn towards the exit. "I am only doing this in response for the Alliance preventing me from delivering the final blow to the Lich King."

The knight started to the exit, but before he stepped foot in the circular hallway, Garrosh Hellscream threw an axe into his back, piercing his armor and ripping his cape, causing him to stumble. Nykolo regained his balance and grasped the axe. With a strong tug he pulled it out. No blood oozed out of the wound, just pieces of dead, shredded flesh. Nykolo turned his head back, with a glowing eye of misty blue rage. He spun around and threw the axe back to Hellscream, stopping just above his head.

The warchief didn't flinch. He narrowed his eyes at the undead elf, before he turned and left the hold, with his shredded cape flowing. "Of all the mercenaries loved by the Horde and Thrall. I hate him the most." The Warchief's brow sunk deeper. "So why do I keep him?"

Nazgrim came to Hellscream's side. "You admire his confidence, and his fighting skills."

Garrosh snorted at the remark, but made no move to protest.

Back into the Cleft of Shadows, the warlock home underneath Orgrimmar, Nykolo visits the troll witch-doctor, Gan'Zul, to mend his cleaved back. Nykolo sat on a small stool in the middle of the tent. In front of him stood his long-time partner, the orc warlock Shargaas.

"Ya know dat if ya continue ta insult him, he will aim for yer head, Nykolo." Gan'Zul said in his strong Zandalari accent.

"He won't." the elf said with pride. "He knows that if he gets rid of me, he'll lose the best warrior in Azeroth."

The troll took a quick glance at the wound. "I'll have ta stitch de wound close, for de magic to take effect." Gan'Zul reached for a string and needle, on the nearby table.

"Do whatever you have to. Just make it quick."

"Patience, der's no hurry, is der?"

"I have a mission to do, so I need to be in the best of shape."

Towards the exit, a soft voice swept through the tent. "Are you to take us along with you?" The young tauren shaman, Berunda, lowered to her knees, so that her great body could fit inside the small space. The death knight turned his shoulders to regard his favored healer.

"Don't move!" Gan'Zul forcefully pushed the stubborn elf back forward. "I have not applied de stitches."

Nykolo scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Let me take it from here." Berunda crawled on fours to face Nykolo's back. "As you know, my magic is meant for healing. You practice darker magic."

"Voodoo is de way of de Zandalari," Gan'Zul said. "De way of me ancestors."

The young tauren looked at the wound vertical to Nykolo's back. "Hellscream again?"

"That miserable orc is always trying to outdo me!" the elf growled. "But no matter how much he tries, he still is as slow and clumsy as a Kodo." Nylolo chuckles.

Soon after, a fist slammed into Nykolo's face, completely dislodging his jawbone. Shargaas' eyes were glowing red. "I told you not to talk to the warchief like that."

Nykolo snapped his jaw back into place and stared at Shargaas with an equally frightful presence. Cold mist started to wisp from his eyes. Until finally, Shargaas calmed.

"I am sorry."

Nykolo calmed as well, his eyes dimming.

"He is my leader." The warlock started. "It is my nature to respect him."

"As is ours," Nykolo said, trying to comfort his friend. "But neither of our leaders respect yours."

"Especially mine," Berunda added with discomfort. Referring to the death of Cairne Bloodhoof.

"But we are all a team, so forget about your allegiance." Silence fell the tent.

"Anyway, let me mend this for you. Shouldn't take long." Berunda announced to break the silence. She reached into her pouch and pulled out some herbs, and her mixing bowl and started mixing a special remedy. After the herbs were crushed, Berunda grabbed the dust and sprinkled it in Nykolo's wound. The tauren grabbed more and rubbed it on the sides. The wound started to close as she rubbed.

Gan'Zul turned to the sliced breastplate. "What of yer armor?"

"I'll have the siegesmith fix it," Nykolo said. "There's no one better in Azeroth that can mend the armor of the Knights of the Ebon Blade."

"Whatever ye say."

After a few minutes, the wound finally closes, leaving a large white scar down Nykolo's back. "It is done, though you should keep it away from harm," Berunda said. "So the scar doesn't open again."

"Whatever you say." Nykolo responded dryly. Berunda snorted and shook her head with a smiling, knowing Nykolo will undoubtedly not take the advise. Nykolo grabbed his shredded armor and ripped cape. "I won't take long. Meet me at the docks mounts in one hour."

The Death Knight reached out his hand. Purple lightning shot out from his fingertips and shaped into the form of a triangular gate. The silhouette of a small dragon skull appeared above the gate, and dark mists swirled in the middle. The Death Gate, Doorway to the Ebon Hold.

Nykolo stepped into the gate, and gave a thumbs up and a half smile as it closed in behind him.

The moment the last speck of the gate drifted away. Shargaas erupted with a loud growl and kicked the stool that the blood elf had just been sitting. "That no good cold-blooded elf has the nerve to talk to the Warchief in that manner!" The warlock shouted. "He was never like that when Thrall was Warchief."

"Because he be admirin' Thrall for his wisdom, not his strength, Shargaas." Gan'Zul waddled on squatted legs towards the warlock. "And he be admirin' ya power."

Shargaas snorted, and waltzed out of the tent.

The troll followed behind him. "He may appear te be cold, but remember." He placed a three fingered hand on Shargaas' shoulder. "If not for him, we be with our ancestors, and our bodies buried with our people."

Shargaas scrunched his face, but listened to his friend. After a moment of silence, the warlock's eyes extinguished, showing his brown eyes. "I understand, old friend."

"Be careful," Gan'Zul reminded. "De more anger ya feel, the more de demons will take over ya body and destroy ya soul. Ya remember, dat be the price of a warlock."

Shargaas turned to the wise witch-doctor and nodded.

Nykolo flew through a tunnel of darkness, with many spiritsflowing by. Spirits that were absorbed into his runeblades. Including Dragha Shadowburner, spitting harsh words to the Death Knight. And King Ymiron shouting words in Vyrkul, in which Nykolo couldn't understand. All cursing and begging for freedom. Although, Nykolo, who was missing his very soul, felt no remorse, no shame, and only just a hint of pity. They taunted him until he came to the end of the tunnel, where his feet set on the stone flooring of the necropolis known as the Ebon Hold, and he soon felt pity, thinking of releasing those innocents he slew during the scarlet onslaught. But those memories passed when he looked upon his armor, and remembered why he was here.

The blood elf walked down the stairs and turned towards the glowing purple portal just under the balcony, sided by two death knights on watch. He stepped onto it and immediately was teleported down into the productions level of the floating fortress. Scores of knights walked around talking to one another, while abominations walked stupidly around the arena. One, however; Ozorg, obediently sat still in the corner. Nykolo never liked the grotesque giants, but he admired their usefulness.

On the other side dwelled the Siegesmith, Corvus, Nykolo could here the skeleton muttering to himself with his bodiless voice. "'Fix my armor, Corvus!' 'My blade is rusted, Corvus!' Damnable knights!"

"Bal'a'dash, Corvus" Nykolo greeted in Thalassian, "I see you are as hard working as always." His tone somewhat sarcastic.

Corvus growled at the sight of the elf. Whom happens to be his most popular visitor in the Ebon Hold. Nevertheless, he hated the mercenary just as much as any death knight. This one, however, he knew more than he desired.

"Chip your armor again, blood elf?" The siegesmith retorted while pounding on a hot blade. Without a word, Nykolo put his cleaved breastplate on the black anvil Corvus was using. He did not show it, could not show it, but Nykoloknew that he was disgusted at the look of the damage from the Warchief's axe. He didn't care. "I told you not to confront Garrosh in that matter again!"

"I don't trust him." Nykolo said in his usual sullen way. He turned towards the runeforge next to Corvus's spot. "And neither does he trust me. Which, frankly, I care less than a rotting ghoul's genitals."

Nykolo pulled out a simple, blunt sword from the rack, inspected it for a few seconds, and placed it on the forge altar. He, then, pulled out a sharpening stone and ran it down the blade. The sword still looked simple, but he left it on the altar anyway. The death knight reached for a hammer and chisel near the altar and started engraving runes into the blade. One by one, as carefully as he could, he hammered away on the chisel, carving symbols into the blade down to the very tip. After the engraving was finished, he returned the tools back near the altar and raised his hands, calling forth the dark magic that he possessed. As soon as his hands started to glow a deep purple, he threw them towards the mouth of the skull-shaped runeforge, throwing a ray of dark matter into it. The forge projected an enhanced ray towards the sword, engulfing it in an orb of blackness.

After a while, Nykolo relaxed and lowered his hands, than the orb deteriorated, leaving away a transformed sword, a beautiful runeblade, with a viciously jagged edge. The runes glowing permanently.

"I'm assuming you're going to add that to your collection." Corvus came with Nykolo's repaired breastplate, looking as new as the day it was first given to him.

"Of course I am!" Nykolo stepped in front of the skeleton, and stood while Corvus donned the armor over the elf's torso.

After that, Nykolo grabbed the sword from the altar, and reached for his hearthstone.

"Try not to get yourself harmed this time, Nykolo," the siegesmith groaned.

"As if you give a damn for my well-being, Corvus," Nykolo said sarcastically. He ran a finger across the etching on the stone. A green glow illuminated in the etching, and flashed in Nykolo's eyes.

Berunda reached the Goblin Slums, an oily, dirty district in Orgrimmar run by the Bilgewater Cartel. The large tauren was like an ogre among humans, she couldn't set her cloven hoof down without a goblin pushing it away, giving the shaman dirty looks and shouting harsh words, such as "Out of the way, beefy-bums!" Berunda's mouth flew wide open at the remark of the rude goblin. She begged the Earth Mother to stay her hand of crushing the small green-skin's throat with her great hand.

"Hey, Nixxle, leave the gal alone." The goblin just ahead turned about, revealing his expensive tunic, and many assortment of rings. The famous mage-merchant, Beezle Fozzelwicket, came flopping his feet towards the shaman and Nixxle. "You never heard of Berunda Bloodhoof? The niece of Cairne Bloodhoof? The cousin of the new tauren chieftain, Baine-"

"That's quite enough Fozzelwicket," Berunda interrupted.

"Oh, yeah! Sorry."

Berunda giggled.

Fozzelwicket looked to Nixxle and pointed towards the clinic. "After the big accident, there's been a lot of patients. The doc can't take care of them all alone. So get over there ya nub-goblin, before I glue your buns together!" The mage slapped Nixxle upside the head.

"Ow, alright, alright!" Nixxle complained as he walked off. "Sheesh! It's scary wonderin' what the cartel would have been if he became Trade Prince."

Berunda giggled again. "You seem to have your way with people."

"Eh, well." Fozzelwicket shrugged. "It's a given."

Berunda raised a curious eyebrow at the remark. "Well, anyway, I came here to inform you that we have just gotten another job."

"Ooh! How exciting!" Fozzelwicket grinned with his usual eye for 'profit.'

"Nazgrim has assigned us to the front lines for the invasion of a new continent," Berunda continued. A little nervous of the goblins grin. "If we take this continent, it could give the Horde a strong foothold against the Alliance."

Berunda sank her head. "However, I wonder if this will harm the balance of the world."

"Eh," Fozzelwicket shrugged again. "Don't fret, Hooves. A job's a job."

Berunda cleared her throat. "Yes! Well than! Let's hurry and meet up with Gan'zul."

"Can I get a lift?" the merchant asked.

"Alright" the tauren groaned with one of her warm smiles. The goblin climbed up Berunda and rested his legs on her shoulders. "Yeehaw! The great mage-merchant, Beezle Fozzelwicket, atop his trusty tauren mount."

"Don't push it, you tiny orc." Berunda started to the gateway to the Valley of Strength.

"Orcs don't have these stunning ears," Fozzelwicket teased. "This strong chin, and this lovely nose." He stroked his chin with one hand; his nose with the other.

"Right..."

"Also, ain't I a mercenary now?" Fozzelwicket looked down to see Berunda at eye level. "I could call myself 'Triple M'; Mage-merchant-mercenary. Got a nice ring to it, dont'cha think?"

"Maybe you should just stick with Mage-merchant, if that's even a real title," Berunda muttered the last bit.

"I heard that," Beezle looked down again. "And yes! It is a real title. Give it some time, Hooves."

Berunda laughed.

The green hued elevator flew down to the sewer system of the ruined keep of Lordaeron, where the Forsaken use as their capital city. The door flew up, opening to a hallway cornering to the Trade Quarters of the infamous Undercity. The warlock never got used to the city, being surrounded by walking corpses. Not to mention, the fact that they are capable of thinking.

Shargaas hurried down the halls and stairway into the War Quarters, where the new soldiers were being trained.

One of the trainers fought with fierce precision. Bringing down a recruit in a mere second. "You're too slow," she said sternly. "Even for a corpse. You will never join the Deathstalkers unless you work yourself to the bone."

"Aka'Magosh, Ms. Deathstroke!" Shargaas made a salute to Altaia.

The assassin's eyes narrowed as she looked at the orc warlock. Scanning his body, unusually fit for a warlock. "The death knight sent you?" she asked dryly.

"Technically speaking," he answered. "Yes!"

Altaia turned her back to Shargaas. "No." She retreated back to the fighting ring.

The warlock wasn't at all confused. Altaia was always stubborn, even more stubborn than Nykolo. "It's a paying job," he reasoned. "And the pay is good."

Altaia stopped, but did not look back. "Will it cost an arm and a leg?" she said. "I don't want to lose another pair to an oversized monster."

"There will be monsters, but I doubt that they will be half as powerful as Deathwing."

The Forsaken put her pale blue hands on her hips. Not making any move to look Shargaas in the eye. "I'll think about it."

"Zug-zug," the warlock saluted. He turned around, than made his way back to the Trade Quarters, where he plans on having a drink at one of the bars.

Altaia pondered on her own. Sitting on the edge of the dock, over the river of sewage, she wondered if it was even worth joining Nykolo again. On that dock, she thought to herself.

"I always lose a limb or two when we take on a job. I hate it, that's why I stayed to train the new recruits. So why am I so curious to go?"

With his robe untied and hung over the chair, Shargaas sat at the Trade Quarters' bar passing the time with a drink; a mixture of spice rum, moonberry juice, and a potion of mana; something the warlock calls the Metamorphosis. He had three more potions, but wondered whether he will be able to use them during the mission at this rate. Wondering if Altaia would show up.

"Another round, big guy?" the bartender asked.

"Leave the bottles," Shargaas replied.

The bartender set the moonberry juice and the spice rum bottles on the bar, then walked off to the back room. Shargaas poured the bottles simultaneously in the glass, followed by another bottle of mana.

Minutes later, Altaia finally arrived at the bar, sitting on the stool next to the warlock.

"So, what's your decision?" he said, without ever looking at the deathstalker.

"Well," Altaia began. "Fozzelwicket isn't good at picking locks, or getting behind enemy lines."

Shargaas chuckled, as their glasses tapped against each other. They each took their shots of the Metamorphosis, before Altaia coughed and groaned as the liquor went down her throat. "How can you drink this stuff? It tastes like the hind-end of a rotting ass."

Shargaas chuckled loudly.

The green light dimmed, and Nykolo was in the tavern in Orgrimmar's Valley of Strength. Not even taking a second guess to speak to anyone, he stepped outside to the porch, and summoned his trusty steed. His hands glowed with dark energy, building up until it completely covered his hand. He threw it to the other end of the porch, as the energy rounded. The orb expanded, than took the shape of a horse. The blackness dripped down, leaving behind a black stallion, sputtering as it shook it's head. Saranite plates covered it's body in the same fashion as Nykolo's armor. The death knight smiled with glee, his one true friend, the warhorse, Elrendar, standing by his side.

Nykolo looked to his tattered cape, he needed to take it to the tailor for repairing. He climbed on Elrendar's saddle and snapped the reins, moving him towards the Drag, where the professions were taught.

As the mercenary rode through the streets of Orgrimmar, many of the residents turn towards him as he passed. Many cheers for his success. Others, mostly from orcs, of suspicion and anger. Nykolo didn't care, he liked the reputation, but he felt no happiness, no pride for his success. He didn't even look to the residents, nor did he raise a hand, or even smile.

He arrived to Magar's Cloth Goods, and the master orc tailor immediately recognized the mercenary from inside the hut. He expected him to arrive sooner or later, to the point that he even set Nykolo's favorite thread on a special table in the back, just in case he did. "I heard you had another clash with Warchief Hellscream, death knight." Magar said when Nykolo entered the hut.

"Hasn't all of Orgrimmar heard of it?" Nykolo smirked, followed by a echoing chuckle.

"Give me the cape." Magar reached out a hand. "I have a special spot for it in back." Nykolo handed the cloak to the tailor. Magar examined it quickly and gave the elf a curious look. "Gorehowl?"

The death knight slung his head to the side, annoyed at the one-worded question. What else would Garrosh use to chop with?

"I see." Magar went to the back, where his special table was. Nykolo followed him there. "So, you are headed to the new continent to the south. No doubt it was Nazgrim's idea. He has always admired you."

"You know quite a bit about what happens around the city," Nykolo remarked.

"You'd be surprised who comes to my shop."

Nykolo shrugged.

The cloak was a perfect fit, as always. Nykolo smiled at the mirror, now his intimidating presence was restored. "Your work is as good as always Magar." Nykolo turned away from the mirror, facing the orc tailor. He gave him a quick bow, then walked out of the hut.

"Hey!" Magar called out.

Nykolo turned his head. Magar held out his hand and swiping his fingers simultaneously. "Five gold pieces."

The death knight let out a quiet groan. "I'll pay you after I return from my mission." He climbed on Elrendar's saddle, and galloped towards the gates.

"You always say that," Magar muttered to himself. "Still, can't say you don't owe me."

"He always wastes his money on repairs, and weapons for his collection," said Snang, Magar's apprentice. "He is as picky and as prissy as his elven kind. I'm not at all surprised as to how he ended up a death knight." The two orcs laughed at the remark, then returned to their work.


End file.
